Shadows on the Walls
by Distorted Pheonix
Summary: In an alternate universe, Voldemort tells the world about the one wizard he ever admired.


My name is - was - Tom Marvolo Riddle. Riddle is a name I have long since buried, a name that only Dumbledore remembers now. I have unpleasant memories attached to that name. I prefer not to think of it.

Because, you see, I am now Lord Voldemort. No one is left untouched by my name. They quiver in fear, their skin grows cold, they refuse to say it all together. I enjoy knowing that. There's something about having the whole world terrified at the very idea of you.

Ok, so not the entire world. The Potters - James and Lily and their offspring - curl their lip with disdain at the mention of my name. I scorn them for their choice; they will learn the meaning of fear. So many opportunities. The twins, Maggie with black hair and Griffon with red. Only four, still chasing each other on toy broomsticks. Maggie already has shown a remarkably assertive personality and refuses to wear skirts or dresses. Griffon, who is growing his hair out long like "Unca Bill", displays a remarkable talent of reaching into other people's pockets and removing various objects without them knowing.

Devan, age seven. This charming lad has developed an affinity for music and is almost constantly humming. There is often a handmade reed pipe sticking from one of his various pockets and he recently recieved a toy guitar for Christmas. The black hair is cut short and a jagged scar runs down his cheek from where he fell out of a tree. 

Ashley is a first year at Hogwarts, a proud little Gryffindor. Although a gap currently resides where a front tooth should be, the girl shows all the signs of growing into a red haired beauty. A staunch feminist and heavily involved in her studies, Ashley nevertheless takes the time to put on makeup in the morning.

Sheri and Todd, born nine months apart, but both Gryffindor fourth years. These two look more like twins than their younger siblings, both with close cropped black hair and nearly identical facial features. Todd is the elder, but Sheri is the more outgoing of the two and so she has a tad more popularity. Todd has his own share of attention, however. His dry wit and poker face guarantee constant laughter at his table. Todd tends to cover for Sheri when she plays her pranks. They work well together.

Last of all, Harry Potter. Currently a seventh year, he, of all the Potter children, irks me the most. This is the boy that shouldn't have lived, much as James Potter shouldn't have lived. These are the two I must guard against, the natural rivals that my nature provides for me. Harry is both the luckiest and the most intelligent of the Potter brood, at least so far. Not intelligent, bookwise, but rather he knows his limits and how far he can push them. He knows his faults and weaknesses and moves to eradicate them. The boy is a natural leader as well. And he is not afraid of me, which must count for something. He knows the consequences of being my enemy as well. 

You see, Harry remembers Sirius Black. Harry was seven when Sirius Black disappeared. Todd was barely four, Sheri a disastrous three, and Ashley still a babe suckling at Lily's breast. So only Harry remembers "Uncle Padfoot", remembers the man who used to babysit him and let him stay up late and then turn into a dog and sleep on the covers. Harry remembers the exquisite grief a child suffers when someone dear to them dies, remembers the realization that the world isn't a perfect place and his parents can't make everything better. Harry learned of reality much sooner than a child is supposed to learn it.

Next, the Lupins. Remus and his wife, Diane Pettigrew, have only two children, thirteen and nine. Young Icarus, called "Ike" by his friends, resides in Ravenclaw, though is rather more impetuous than the usual brainy type. As a result, he is currently in the running for breaking his father's shared record of most detentions in school. Icarus is tall and lanky, with a gray streak running through his wavy chestnut hair. He also has a slight crush on the Ravenclaw Head Girl, Hermione Granger. Clio is nine and a talented artist. She draws on everything she can get her hands on. The wall, the table, paper, you name it. She inherits the long, wavy mahogany hair from her mother and the blue-green eyes from her father.

The Weasleys, a family full of redheads, are not afraid of me. With numbers challenging the Potter's gang, they have Bill, a favorite plaything of the Potter kids, Charlie, the make believe dragon for the Lupin children when they were smaller, and Percy, the rising Ministry official. Fred and George have taught all their tricks of the trade to Sheri and Ike. Ron is Harry Potter's best mate while Ginny is also in the eldest Potter's close circle of friends. In fact, I believe they are now seeing each other romantically; Isn't that funny? John is the third member of Sheri and Todd's Gryffindor trio while Mike shares the company of Ike in Ravenclaw. Caleb shows a preference for playing trumpet and is best friends with Devan Potter. They were born on the same day. 

The Pettigrews, Peter and Jessica. Recently married, their sole offspring is a rambunctious boy called Sean. Sean plays with Maggie and Griffon. It is easy to tell that the two boys rub off on the girl. A future tomboy, she already can beat Sean in wrestling and run faster than Griffon. Sean promises to be a good Chaser, by the accuracy he uses to throw marshmellows at Griffon.

Finally, Samantha Black. Ginny Weasley's best friend, Ron Weasley's girlfriend, and the last member of Harry's circle, this tomboy is no doubt Maggie's role model. Her black hair is as dark as Harry's, but she has her father's dark chocolate eyes and refined facial structure. She hates me most, of all this next generation, for it was her father I killed. The only parental figure she knew (her mother had died in childbirth), she can still remember being bounced on his knee, and told stories of dragons and princesses and white horses. She lives with the Potters now, but never forgets Sirius. I know she hates me. I dread meeting her, because I will then have to explain why he died.

You see, though Dumbledore is the only wizard I ever feared, I do not admire him. I cannot, the Mudblood lover. No, there was only one wizard I ever admired. It was not Salazar Slytherin, or Grindelwald, as so many think. They were weak and foolish, and in the end were defeated by their own greed.

No, the only wizard I ever admired was Sirius Black. 

It took us years to find him. Tipped off as to who the Secret Keeper was when Harry was only one, it took us six years to finally catch up with the former street rat. My Death Eaters took him in the late evening, right from the couch in his sitting room. His six year old daughter never heard us. 

I didn't have contact with him until we met at the Death Eater's headquarters, specifically the manor of Lucius Malfoy. My minions had already roughed him up a bit, just for being who he was. Nonetheless, the man ignored the blossoming black eye and the trail of blood running from the corner of his mouth, choosing instead to glare at me with cold brown eyes that seemed to grow darker by the moment. 

I, of course, showed only disdain for our prisoner. What else would I have shown? Here before me was the person who believed he would die before betraying the Mudblood-loving Potter. All men break. Besides that, the thief was wearing Muggle clothes, a black t-shirt, blacker jeans, and light weight (you guessed it) black boots. The nerve of him.

Of course, to be fair, he hadn't exactly been planning to meet me that night.

He was so young. Younger than most of the men surrounding him, he nevertheless eminated an aura of fury and defiance that seemed to cow them, even with his hands bound behind his back. He unnerved them, but not me. A mere thief was not going to stand in my way for greatness.

I - questioned - him, of course. He screamed, as every other mortal under that particular curse has ever done. But he still was stronger than most. It took him longer than most for his legs to buckle, longer than most to be driven to his knees from the pain. Indeed, he never even made it to the ground, never writhed on the floor as most others did. 

After it stopped, he rose slowly, one leg at a time, jaw tensed with remembered agony and determination, until he stood, swaying but upright. And he looked me in the eyes again. 

It was then that I knew this one would be different than most. From underneath black fringe, mahogany eyes bored into me, with such intense hate and loathing that any other man would have taken a step back. But not me. I had seen this before. No, what was different was that the eyes were already focused. Unusual. It normally took several minutes before the eyes focused correctly after the Cruciatus. This man, this Sirius Black, was made of sterner stuff than I had at first realized.

I questioned again, and when he did not answer, just stared at me with those shadowed eyes, I became impatient. After another dose, during which the previous episode was practically repeated, the prisoner was taken away to be locked up somewhere in the Malfoy dungeon.

We kept him for a month. Every hour from sun-up to sun-down we asked him where the Potters were hidden and every hour we recieved silence as an answer. Every hour, Sirius Black was put under the Cruciatus Curse, and every time he glared at us from burning eyes.

There's something you should know about the Cruciatus. A couple of things, actually. It can drive one insane when used for more than a few hours continuously, but regular doses allow the subject's mind to regain it's grip on reality. It is also more painful than any Muggle method of torture, and contrary to popular opinion, I do not yet resort to such despicable measures as emulating Mudbloods. Lastly, one cannot grow used to it. Some curses, a person can become inured to eventually, if the curse is put on them enough - rather like becoming immune to poisons by taking small doses of it. Cruciatus is not like that. It is more like having salt literally rubbed in one's wound, over and over, until the nerves are raw - allowing the pain to be felt all the more exquisitely. 

Which makes it all the more impressive that the thief resisted our attempts to extract his information. All men break, I had said, but now I was not so sure. 

I can well remember the last day he was alive. That morning the sun spilled through the bars of the window at the top of the wall. The light hit nowhere near where our prisoner was bound, hands behind his back, in a blackened corner. From the doorway, I watched as the dark head slowly lifted. Through the shadows, dark eyes glittering with rage met mine, shadowed further by the fringe of hair, giving the thief an unearthly quality. I shivered. This, here, was the angel of apocalypse, and he was looking at me.

Then a veil seemed to pass over his obsidian eyes, hiding the rage behind a cloak of indifference. It was then that I knew - I knew - I had broken him. He no longer cared. He didn't care what happened to him, or his friends, or his daughter. He didn't care anymore.

Or so I thought.

Malfoy and Nott hauled him roughly to his feet. The thief gave no resistance, standing passively before me, staring blankly into the wall behind me. Only when I asked the usual questions did his penetrating gaze turn to me. With no warning, a half smile appeared on his lips, rekindling the raging insanity in his eyes. Here, I thought, here was a tiger trapped in a cage too small. 

Now, mind you, I was unafraid. By then, I was practically immortal. I had no doubt that this......this.....street rat would never topple me from my throne. 

And then he unleashed his fury.

It was quite possibly the most impressive piece of wandless magic I have ever seen. 

You see, wandless magic is not so easy as it sounds, especially for adults. When a child and untrained, the imaginatio, fueled by emotions, makes many things possible. As one grows older, the imagination decays, confines infinity to a box. Told so often that wandless magic is impossible, the adult cannot do such magic.

There are, one or two in every generation at Hogwarts, wizards and witches who can do such magic, if only certain spells. Dumbledore has a special affinity for the wandless Transfigurations while I easily do without a wand for the Dark Arts. Remus Lupin can manage small spells. Ron Weasley is in the unique position where having a wand actually hurts him, as there is so much magic flowing through his channels. But Sirius Black was never known for having such a talent.

In order for someone one not so talented at wandless magic to do it on purpose, they must focus their thoughts on the task for some time, depending on how large the spell is. Although possible, it is very inconvenient, as one usually doesn't want to wait seven hours to boil water wandless when they can take one second and do it with a wand.

Sirius Black, however, didn't have the convenience of a wand.

With only the half smile as warning, both Malfoy and Nott burst into flames. Not their robes. They, themselves, their bodies, their flesh caught fire. One bloodcurdling scream from each as they fell to the ground, and then both were silent.

And then he turned his gaze on me.

We both knew he would have to do more than set me on fire to kill me. But I could not keep the admiration from my eyes. His focus.....incredible! He must have concentrated on this beautiful piece of work for a month, not letting it slip from his mind even while being tortured, dreaming of it while he slept. The self discipline it must have taken was astounding. And for that, I admired him.

He saw it there too. I knew it. I gave him one nod as I Apparated from the cell, leaving the Lestranges to their fate. Sirius Black had earned my respect and grudging admiration. He deserved to complete the death he had chosen.

The flames burned for three days and three nights. Finally, when even the stone had cooled to its original temperature, I allowed for that....that.....tomb to be entered.

There was nothing, no bodies, no bones, not even ashes. That was not what sent a shiver running through the ranks of my Death Eaters.

There were shadows on the wall.

Unmoving silhouettes were etched upon the stone, writhing forms of one woman and three men.

Among them grinned the image of a dog.


End file.
